Cookie dough wishes and marshmallow dreams.

I feel good today and that makes me nervous. In my OCD world, I understand all the way down to my itsy-bitsy, microscopic cells that I have absolutely no right to feel good, crappy as life is treating me lately. It's not logical.

And I am all about logical. (I could hardly type that with a straight face.)

Frankly, I'm happy to the point of outright and flamboyant giddiness and the happier I get, the more convinced I am that something has completely shorted out in my brain. I should be spending my time today worrying, fretting and stewing, not skipping around the house whistling the theme to the Brady Bunch.

Don't I know how bad things are?

I've got to snap out of it, people. I've got to get ahold of myself and smack me back down to Earth. Life is hard, people are mean and there are no unicorns. I need to focus on the things that make me feel bad about life...and try to stop thinking of kittens and twenty-somethings in love running in slow motion through wheat fields.

That new Kathy Griffin reality show, "My Life on the D List" should make me feel absolutely horrible about myself. She says things I would never say, she is entirely offensive and I watched her show in the dark with the blinds pulled....as I laughed hysterically. I'm ashamed of myself and you should be, too.

I'm getting kind of used to my TV shame, though. Given my affinity for shows that begin with this disclaimer: "Contains cartoon nudity", I think I have a problem, and that should make me feel bad. The same woman that has MTV blocked from all TV sets in my house and guards my son's TV watching like a bleach-blonde pit bull, has a dirty little addiction to icky TV.

OK, good. Now I'm starting to feel somewhat less effervescent. I'm coming down just a skosh from my euphoria. (Unfortunately the fact that I used the word "effervescent" has now made me giggle. Stupid thesaurus.)

I have totally gone off my diet lately and that's not a happy thing. I've eaten really, really bad things on almost an hourly basis. Things you would never let your kids eat...or even monkeys that know sign language. Things that I feel way guilty about putting in my mouth. We're talking cookie dough, peanut butter and marshmallow fluff sandwiches and gallons of Diet Pepsi with vanilla. (Because the surgeon general says Diet Pepsi cancels out all the calories of the afore-mentioned junk foods and the added vanilla makes my insides feel pretty.)

Guilt. That's a good "downer" emotion. That should take the wind out of my sails and the bounce out of my step. I should be saving the money spent on nasty foods and use it fly to Cambodia and get me one of those Angelina babies. I could do my part as a humanitarian and raise it here in the states where it would learn to play PS2, wear Nike's and talk back to me.

There it is. That nice, guilty, I'm not doing enough for the world, kind of sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. Now we're getting somewhere.

Oooh-Oooh-Oooh! I've got one! This will totally make me feel bad. The evil red-headed Berta Lou best friend doll told me a secret that is so funny and so potentially destructive to someone we don't like, that I want to tell it to everyone in the entire universe. It's killing me not to shout it from the mountain tops. As she and I have a strict code of putting our best friend secrets in the vault for all eternity, I am not allowed to tell....UNTIL NOW!

If I blab this secret, I will feel like such a rotten, low-down, pond-scum-sucking poop head for breaking her confidence, I will totally mope for days. No more doodling rainbows all over the bills before I mail them and no more using the word "peachy" when random people ask me how I'm doing.

Ready? Here it is:

Prepare yourself. It's mean and sneaky and a secret that could really screw up life for someone with whom the evil 9-1-1 dispatcher Berta Lou works. It would wreak havoc, even. Throw the entire Police Department into a tale spin, cause friendships to crumble and jobs to be lost. It's that bad.

Ok. Here it comes. I'm really going to say it. I mean it this time.


Crap. Can't do it. That's just fabulous. Now I feel even happier than I did before because I didn't spread gossip. Maybe I should call Kathy Griffin and tell her. She could do it.

It sucks to be me. I'm going to go watch, "Terms of Endearment" one-hundred and forty-two times and say mean things to the dog.


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